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Casey McKinney works as the trusted assistant to an international superstar
erotica photographer, slaving away at his menial tasks while his boss,
Lowell Truss, photographs the gorgeous models in graphic positions before
bedding them. All Casey can do is watch with envy although he has a
boyfriend, Dallas, waiting at home and he’s even sexier than any of the guys
Truss shoots. But Dallas is struggling to make it as a model and he thinks
posing for Truss is the ideal way to get exposure, especially as he would
feature in a documentary about the famed photographer currently being
filmed. Casey and Dallas have founded their relationship on fidelity and,
even though Dallas swears he could withstand the ugly old bastard’s
advances, Casey knows better than anyone the power of celebrity, as well as
Dallas’s ruthless ambition. If Dallas goes ahead with his plan, their
relationship is over.
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Excerpt:
The movie was a huge success, unusual for a documentary, even one devoted to
the stellar career of the world’s greatest living photographer. That would
be Lowell Truss. His iconic images adorned the walls of the world’s greatest
art galleries and museums, as well as the walls of the incredibly rich and
unbelievably famous. They also adorned the walls, in poster form, of
countless gay boy residences; for Lowell Truss was the most famous purveyor
of photographic male erotica the world has ever seen.
Of course, the documentary shattered box office records because it was a
warts and all portrayal of the man, the genius, and the unorthodox methods
he used to create his incredible works of all-male art. If photography had
been a Renaissance art, Truss would have been the equal of Michelangelo.
I didn’t care whether the film was a success or not, or that it had been
nominated for so many cultural awards including an Oscar. I could have seen
the notorious film when it was first released months back to brouhaha about
its graphic images of gay male sexuality, but I’d preferred to wait until my
head was in a more tranquil space before I could bring myself to visit that
part of my life again. You see, I had…
“Excuse me,” the voice called as I hurried across the cinema foyer, eager to
sneak away.
I made the mistake of stopping. An attractive young twink, obviously
collegiate and nerdy if his clothes and spectacles were anything to go by,
bore down on me, his eyes shining with the reverential glow of a fan boy.
“You’re Casey McKinney, aren’t you? I just saw you in that film about Lowell
Truss. You were wonderful,” he gushed, then wondering if he’d said the wrong
thing because of my lack of warmth, “You are wonderful. Much better looking
in the flesh.”
My lips curled into a semi-smile at the flattery. I knew what the guy
wanted. It’s what they all wanted when they found out who I am or, rather,
who I worked for. They saw me as a stepping stone. After all, I worked for
the aforementioned Lowell Truss, a man who had power over men’s futures. He
could make, sometimes break, a career. When it came to the firmament of male
stars, he was God.
If Lowell Truss chose you as a photographic model, you could pick your own
career: fashion model, actor, television personality, anything at all that
relied on beauty without necessarily having any substance to back it up. All
his boys went on to lucrative careers – only their own self-indulgence, be
it drugs, alcohol or sexual excess, brought them down.
No one’s reputation was tarnished either as a result of modeling for Truss
even though it was the worst kept secret that gay sex was the extra
ingredient that made his photos the works of art they undoubtedly are.
Therefore, I was inured to young models who saw me as a short-cut into
Truss’s studio and superstardom.
Only one problem: Lowell Truss never used models who were sent to him or
recommended by other people. He eschewed the plastic pretty boys that
strutted the fashion catwalks of Milan, or who threw their drug fucked
bodies about in bars and at rave parties, or whose movie smiles were as
false as their straightened teeth. He had an uncanny knack for finding the
right men on the street, in cafés, in all walks of life when they were just
being themselves. Those men, totally unschooled in the ways of manufactured
beauty ruined by the sneer of superiority, were the ones he sought. So,
you’ll understand why I said coldly to the young man in the cinema foyer, “I
can’t help you. He chooses his own models. If I were to introduce you, you
would stand no chance at all. Besides, it’s in my contract that I am
forbidden to introduce anyone to him except those people who have to do with
his business.”
I turned to walk away, hoping that had put an end to the young man’s
foolishness. I stopped when I heard him laugh, turning to face him when he
said, “Look at me. Do I look like the kind of man who has delusions that he
could pose for a man who photographs the most beautiful men on the planet?”
He smiled as I gave him the once over, examining him now as I would a fine
piece of sirloin at the butcher’s. No, a quick scan of his features and what
I could ascertain of his body beneath his ill-fitting clothes, he would not
make the short-list, even though there was something appealing in his
off-kilter plainness. I had seen Lowell’s photos transform an
ordinary-looking individual into a work of beauty, but I knew this young man
was beyond even his Pygmalion powers...
Excerpt:
The movie was a huge success, unusual for a documentary, even one devoted to
the stellar career of the world’s greatest living photographer. That would
be Lowell Truss. His iconic images adorned the walls of the world’s greatest
art galleries and museums, as well as the walls of the incredibly rich and
unbelievably famous. They also adorned the walls, in poster form, of
countless gay boy residences; for Lowell Truss was the most famous purveyor
of photographic male erotica the world has ever seen.
Of course, the documentary shattered box office records because it was a
warts and all portrayal of the man, the genius, and the unorthodox methods
he used to create his incredible works of all-male art. If photography had
been a Renaissance art, Truss would have been the equal of Michelangelo.
I didn’t care whether the film was a success or not, or that it had been
nominated for so many cultural awards including an Oscar. I could have seen
the notorious film when it was first released months back to brouhaha about
its graphic images of gay male sexuality, but I’d preferred to wait until my
head was in a more tranquil space before I could bring myself to visit that
part of my life again. You see, I had…
“Excuse me,” the voice called as I hurried across the cinema foyer, eager to
sneak away.
I made the mistake of stopping. An attractive young twink, obviously
collegiate and nerdy if his clothes and spectacles were anything to go by,
bore down on me, his eyes shining with the reverential glow of a fan boy.
“You’re Casey McKinney, aren’t you? I just saw you in that film about Lowell
Truss. You were wonderful,” he gushed, then wondering if he’d said the wrong
thing because of my lack of warmth, “You are wonderful. Much better looking
in the flesh.”
My lips curled into a semi-smile at the flattery. I knew what the guy
wanted. It’s what they all wanted when they found out who I am or, rather,
who I worked for. They saw me as a stepping stone. After all, I worked for
the aforementioned Lowell Truss, a man who had power over men’s futures. He
could make, sometimes break, a career. When it came to the firmament of male
stars, he was God.
If Lowell Truss chose you as a photographic model, you could pick your own
career: fashion model, actor, television personality, anything at all that
relied on beauty without necessarily having any substance to back it up. All
his boys went on to lucrative careers – only their own self-indulgence, be
it drugs, alcohol or sexual excess, brought them down.
No one’s reputation was tarnished either as a result of modeling for Truss
even though it was the worst kept secret that gay sex was the extra
ingredient that made his photos the works of art they undoubtedly are.
Therefore, I was inured to young models who saw me as a short-cut into
Truss’s studio and superstardom.
Only one problem: Lowell Truss never used models who were sent to him or
recommended by other people. He eschewed the plastic pretty boys that
strutted the fashion catwalks of Milan, or who threw their drug fucked
bodies about in bars and at rave parties, or whose movie smiles were as
false as their straightened teeth. He had an uncanny knack for finding the
right men on the street, in cafés, in all walks of life when they were just
being themselves. Those men, totally unschooled in the ways of manufactured
beauty ruined by the sneer of superiority, were the ones he sought. So,
you’ll understand why I said coldly to the young man in the cinema foyer, “I
can’t help you. He chooses his own models. If I were to introduce you, you
would stand no chance at all. Besides, it’s in my contract that I am
forbidden to introduce anyone to him except those people who have to do with
his business.”
I turned to walk away, hoping that had put an end to the young man’s
foolishness. I stopped when I heard him laugh, turning to face him when he
said, “Look at me. Do I look like the kind of man who has delusions that he
could pose for a man who photographs the most beautiful men on the planet?”
He smiled as I gave him the once over, examining him now as I would a fine
piece of sirloin at the butcher’s. No, a quick scan of his features and what
I could ascertain of his body beneath his ill-fitting clothes, he would not
make the short-list, even though there was something appealing in his
off-kilter plainness. I had seen Lowell’s photos transform an
ordinary-looking individual into a work of beauty, but I knew this young man
was beyond even his Pygmalion powers...
Excerpt:
The movie was a huge success, unusual for a documentary, even one devoted to
the stellar career of the world’s greatest living photographer. That would
be Lowell Truss. His iconic images adorned the walls of the world’s greatest
art galleries and museums, as well as the walls of the incredibly rich and
unbelievably famous. They also adorned the walls, in poster form, of
countless gay boy residences; for Lowell Truss was the most famous purveyor
of photographic male erotica the world has ever seen.
Of course, the documentary shattered box office records because it was a
warts and all portrayal of the man, the genius, and the unorthodox methods
he used to create his incredible works of all-male art. If photography had
been a Renaissance art, Truss would have been the equal of Michelangelo.
I didn’t care whether the film was a success or not, or that it had been
nominated for so many cultural awards including an Oscar. I could have seen
the notorious film when it was first released months back to brouhaha about
its graphic images of gay male sexuality, but I’d preferred to wait until my
head was in a more tranquil space before I could bring myself to visit that
part of my life again. You see, I had…
“Excuse me,” the voice called as I hurried across the cinema foyer, eager to
sneak away.
I made the mistake of stopping. An attractive young twink, obviously
collegiate and nerdy if his clothes and spectacles were anything to go by,
bore down on me, his eyes shining with the reverential glow of a fan boy.
“You’re Casey McKinney, aren’t you? I just saw you in that film about Lowell
Truss. You were wonderful,” he gushed, then wondering if he’d said the wrong
thing because of my lack of warmth, “You are wonderful. Much better looking
in the flesh.”
My lips curled into a semi-smile at the flattery. I knew what the guy
wanted. It’s what they all wanted when they found out who I am or, rather,
who I worked for. They saw me as a stepping stone. After all, I worked for
the aforementioned Lowell Truss, a man who had power over men’s futures. He
could make, sometimes break, a career. When it came to the firmament of male
stars, he was God.
If Lowell Truss chose you as a photographic model, you could pick your own
career: fashion model, actor, television personality, anything at all that
relied on beauty without necessarily having any substance to back it up. All
his boys went on to lucrative careers – only their own self-indulgence, be
it drugs, alcohol or sexual excess, brought them down.
No one’s reputation was tarnished either as a result of modeling for Truss
even though it was the worst kept secret that gay sex was the extra
ingredient that made his photos the works of art they undoubtedly are.
Therefore, I was inured to young models who saw me as a short-cut into
Truss’s studio and superstardom.
Only one problem: Lowell Truss never used models who were sent to him or
recommended by other people. He eschewed the plastic pretty boys that
strutted the fashion catwalks of Milan, or who threw their drug fucked
bodies about in bars and at rave parties, or whose movie smiles were as
false as their straightened teeth. He had an uncanny knack for finding the
right men on the street, in cafés, in all walks of life when they were just
being themselves. Those men, totally unschooled in the ways of manufactured
beauty ruined by the sneer of superiority, were the ones he sought. So,
you’ll understand why I said coldly to the young man in the cinema foyer, “I
can’t help you. He chooses his own models. If I were to introduce you, you
would stand no chance at all. Besides, it’s in my contract that I am
forbidden to introduce anyone to him except those people who have to do with
his business.”
I turned to walk away, hoping that had put an end to the young man’s
foolishness. I stopped when I heard him laugh, turning to face him when he
said, “Look at me. Do I look like the kind of man who has delusions that he
could pose for a man who photographs the most beautiful men on the planet?”
He smiled as I gave him the once over, examining him now as I would a fine
piece of sirloin at the butcher’s. No, a quick scan of his features and what
I could ascertain of his body beneath his ill-fitting clothes, he would not
make the short-list, even though there was something appealing in his
off-kilter plainness. I had seen Lowell’s photos transform an
ordinary-looking individual into a work of beauty, but I knew this young man
was beyond even his Pygmalion powers...
www.barrylowe.net
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